Breaking All the Rules
by keeptheotherone
Summary: Sherlock and Molly's first conversation after Sherrinford. A late contribution to the ILY anniversary on Tumblr.


Sherlock stared out the window of the government car, only vaguely registering the increasing flashes of light that indicated their approach into London. He knew it must be nearly sunrise; Musgrave Hall was hours away, and it had been after two when the paramedics pronounced John fit to travel—

 _Pronounced_.

The word used to declare a death, and how close it had been. Shifting in his seat, he made a feeble attempt at distracting himself from the memory of his best friend drowning. But with a body too tired to lift its wrist to check the time, his mind wasn't far behind and responded only sluggishly, moving the target from John to Mycroft and continuing the theme of time by reliving that eternal span between landing on the Speedy's awning and rushing round the block of flats to see his brother scrambling over the garden wall with a dexterity that belied his three-piece suit.

Mrs. Hudson's scolding and ash-brushing reminded him of Mummy, and then Eurus, and then—

Dropping his head with a sigh that turned into a wince at the tightness of his neck muscles, Sherlock pressed his hands into his eyes, trying to force the images out. _Don't think. Don't concentrate, don't wonder, don't imagine, just—_

But he'd never been any good at not thinking. Not without help.

Unbidden, unwanted, came the effortless euphoria of cocaine….

Sherlock groaned aloud, fingers twitching, digging—

"Stop that."

It was John's voice, and John's hand that forced his wrists down.

"It's okay, Sherlock. We're not that far from mine, you can get something to eat and sleep until you wake up."

But Sherlock shook his head, letting his arms go limp so John would release his vice-like grip. "Wanna see Molly."

John was quiet, studying him for a moment, then said, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No."

"Sherlock, she needs—"

"I need to see her," he interrupted.

"Well maybe, just this once, it's not about you," John snapped.

Sherlock withdrew, shrinking into his corner without conscious thought.

John swore under his breath, scrubbing both hands over his face. "I'm sorry. I know—"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, resuming his usual "defend by offending" strategy. "I know Molly—if I give her time, time to recover her emotions, time to 'get over' that phone call, nothing will change. She'll go back to her usual friendly self, and because I'm a coward, I'll tell myself it's for the best, it's what she wants, and I'll follow her lead."

"You're not a coward."

"I—" He swallowed. "I have to see her. Tonight. This morning. As soon as possible."

"Sherlock, please listen to me. As a physician, as your friend … you're in no shape to have a life-changing conversation right now. You need to rest—eat, sleep, shower for God's sake. We both smell like—"

"The bottom of a well?" Sherlock tried a feeble smile.

John shook his head.

"Too soon?"

"Too bloody soon," John agreed, leaning back again. "Ca—okay, maybe don't call her, but text her, email her, send a telegram to Barts. Let her know you want to talk about it but you need to sleep first. She'll understand."

Sherlock snorted. "That's what we always say about her. 'It's okay to treat Molly like rubbish, she'll understand.'"

John didn't reply, and twenty-seven street lamps flashed by before Sherlock broke the silence.

"Will you call her?"

()()()()

John laid the ringing phone on the seat between him and Sherlock, staring at the picture of Molly from years ago much the same way he'd stared at her on the screen in Sherrinford only hours ago. She picked up almost immediately.

"Hi, John, is everything okay?"

He felt a quick jab of guilt, sharper for its suddenness. Apparently he called Molly socially so rarely that she automatically assumed something was wrong.

"Yeah, Molly, we're—well, we have a lot to tell you, but ... you're on speaker with me and Sherlock."

The silence was palpably cold, despite the distance.

"Molly, I—" Sherlock's rich baritone was deeper than usual, and he cleared his throat.

"John says I shouldn't come over right now, I need a shower and he thinks I'm not in my right mind and that's probably true but I know this, I know I can't lose you. I can't lose you, Molly, please don't shut me out." His voice cracked. "I mean, I need, I—I want—" He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "Please, let me talk to you. Promise me you'll listen, it's all I ask. Please, Molly."

Her reply was clear and loud, as if she were cradling the phone close and speaking directly into the microphone. "Sherlock, what's wrong? What's going on?"

He took a deep breath, but John cut in.

"It's a long story, honest it is, and we're both wiped. We're heading back to London now. I'm going to take him home and feed him and make sure he sleeps—" John shot his best professional "If you don't want to die, you'd better take my advice" look into the gloomy corner beside him—"and he'll call you when he wakes up, okay?"

"Are you sure? You're scaring me."

Another professional switch, to smooth reassuring omniscient voice this time. "We're both uninjured except for some scrapes and bruises. Rosie is with the sitter. I've already checked on her and she's fine. I just wanted Sherlock to hear your voice so he'd relax a bit."

John held his breath, worried he might have given too much away.

"Sherlock—"

"Promise me, Molly Hooper."

An audible breath … a long pause. "I promise to listen," she said finally. "Nothing else."

Sherlock's tense posture folded like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "Good. I mean, thank you."

But she was already gone.

()()()()

Molly jumped and dropped the sponge at the knock on the door. Unable to sit still or calm her mind, she was using her nervous energy to give her flat the best cleaning it had had since Mr. Ali decided to solve his problems with a murder-suicide. Picking up the sponge from under Toby's inquisitive nose, Molly tossed it in the sink, wiped her palms on her jeans, and went to answer the door.

Yep, Sherlock.

She came down off tiptoes, glanced over her shoulder to confirm Tobes wasn't going to make a run for it, and opened the door.

"Hi."

"Hello. May I come in?"

"Actually, I—" _Courage, Molly!_ "I thought it would be best if we did this on neutral territory, so to speak. There's a coffeehouse not far from here that's open all night."

Sherlock drew back in surprise, then folded his arms behind his back and nodded. "Of course. Whatever you prefer."

Molly left the door open while she grabbed a jumper, small bag, and keys left lying on the table for this purpose. She called goodbye to Toby, locked the door, and headed for the lift.

"I know it's not exactly ideal, having a personal conversation in a public space, but there's a small room at the back for groups. There shouldn't be anyone there this time of night."

Sherlock made no reply, but he did relax slightly. Molly forced herself not to make small talk, something he hated even at the best of times, biting her tongue when the urge to break the heavy silence became overwhelming. Sherlock walked as if he knew where they were going, although she'd never taken him here before. He held the door open for her, placed both their orders, paid, and stood with a cup in each hand, waiting for Molly to lead the way into the back.

She sat down, wrapped her shaking hands round the recyclable cup, and watched as Sherlock removed and folded his coat over the back of a chair the way she'd seen him do hundreds of times.

"So … what was that phone call about?"

He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down. "Vivisection."

"What?"

"Vivisection," he repeated. "It—" He sighed. "Apparently I have a sister."

"A sister? Why didn't you tell me?"

He nodded. "Eurus. She's two years younger than I. I forgot about her because she killed my best friend when we were seven."

Molly gasped. "What?"

"Genius psychopath." Sherlock gave one of his fake smiles. "Runs in the family."

She gave him a dark look. "You're not a psychopath."

"Mycroft is," he muttered, but the insult had no heat.

"Mycroft is not a—wait a minute. What does this have to do with—with …" She hesitated, but after That Phone Call, how else could it be phrased? "With us?"

Sherlock's gaze skittered away from her, across the backs of booths to the opposite wall.

Molly drank her latte and waited.

"She wanted to play a game," he said quietly. "She doesn't understand emotions, so she designed a series of situations designed to provoke them in me. So she could watch my reaction. I thought—" He leaned forward. "Molly, she said there were bombs in your flat, and she exploded my flat this morning. I had just watched her kill people right in front of me. I thought you were going to die."

"So, it was an experiment."

"But not mine! I didn't—" He huffed. "Eurus said I had three minutes to get you to say 'I love you' or she would detonate the bombs. What would you have done?"

Molly looked across the table at the face of the man she loved. "I'd have done whatever it took. It's okay, Sherlock. I don't need some elaborate explanation. I understand."

He shook his head, ruffling his curls in frustration. "No, you don't. You don't understand, because you think I just said it to save your life. And I did, but—"

No way was she letting him off that hook. "But what?"

Sherlock swallowed, looking rather pale. "I meant it."

Molly blinked.

"You said—you said I should say it like I meant it, and ... I did."

She stared.

He pushed back from the table and stood up, pacing in the space between the chairs and the brick back wall, and soon his words were flowing as fast as his movements.

"You've heard it all before, Molly, how I'm married to my work, that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, you've seen the vast number of crimes committed in the name of love, but you broke all my rules." He spun to face her. "You were supposed to be easy, simple, a nice smile or flirty compliment once in a while, but you just wouldn't stay in your box! You kept jumping out with your loud jumpers and perky ponytail and morbid jokes and _ginormous_ heart—maybe that was it, maybe I needed a bigger box for your heart, but Molly, I don't think one exists! And I know I don't deserve you, I know I've disappointed you, and hurt you, and god, Molly, you can't imagine how sorry I am, how desperately I wish I could undo each and every time, even what happened yesterday—the day before—whenever—but I can't take back all of it, I can't, because as horrible as that time at Sherrinford was, it made me realize I'll never keep you in the box." Another spin, arms waving in illustration. "No, more than that, it made me realize I don't _want_ to keep you in the box, I want to keep you with me, always with me, and I know I don't deserve you, couldn't possibly ever be good enough for you, but if there's—" He dropped his arms and stilled abruptly. "If there's any way … any chance you might … still care about me, I'd like—" He bit his lip, glancing over at her through his lashes. "I'd like to try."

Molly sat frozen in place, her head cricked round to follow his pacing. "You meant it," she whispered, the small bubble of hope inside her chest expanding with every breath.

He nodded. "I mean it."

She studied his face, eyes darting from eyes to cheek to mouth and back again, looking for any sign of deceit or manipulation, but found nothing but her Sherlock, the sweet, funny man who appeared in quiet moments between the two of them.

"Say it again."

He didn't hesitate. "I love you, Molly Hoop—umph!"

He took a half-step back to absorb the impact of her weight and then Molly was lifted off her feet, wrapped in strong arms and inhaling the sharp starch of his dress shirt mixed with the spice of his cologne, surrounded by deep rolls of joyous laughter. She moved her arms from round his back to his neck and shifted, trying to pull herself higher. Sherlock turned, still holding her, and rested his weight on the table, evening their height difference.

"Better?"

"Much better," Molly whispered, tilting her head so her lips were just under his and letting her eyes flick from that lush mouth to gorgeous eyes and back, waiting … waiting….

And then he kissed her.


End file.
